The days are flying by like the leaves that fall continually now. We can never keep the porches swept clean. That last warm, tropical morning feels like a dream now that it has grown so cold, and we all have stiff fingers and cold noses. It's kind of nice, though, once you can fully let go of summer and realize that winter really is coming. Woodsmoke and rain and early nights. I have to try hard to think of it as cozy, rather than gloomy.
What a week! Our non-profit just mailed out a newsletter, and I stuck the last left-behind letters in the mailbox today. Yesterday I organized the stuffing of almost 1000 envelopes, which always involves about nine of us sitting hunched around a table for hours, putting together letters assembly-line style. We have good music, we talk a lot, we have fun, I get really irritated and stressed out, and somebody inevitably ends up with hurt feelings because of someone else telling them that they are moving too slowly. Sometimes we get a little too sarcastic. I'm always so grateful when we are done. It was a marathon day, since after the letter party we had a staff meeting, and afterward I begged Chinua to let me go into town by myself to run errands. (Read: without the kids.) My angelic husband is always willing to give me time by myself, so I didn't really have to beg, I just did because that's the way I am.
I felt like I needed some encouragement, so I started listening to a sermon by Timothy Keller. His teachings are incredible. I feel like I've found what I'm always looking for in a teacher. He's clear, passionate, intelligent, and wise. Chinua and I have slowly been listening to a series that he did on the Wisdom of Proverbs, but yesterday I cheated and started listening to another series: Living in Hope.
I was blown away. I've talked before about how I've spent large parts of the last four years really fighting depression. It's affected me in so many ways, and maybe spiritually the most. Hearing the description of living in hope that Dr. Keller gave made me weep. He talked about how a life lived in hope, in the certainty of things to come, is completely different from a life lived without hope. Certainty of a good future causes your whole life to be different. He was referring to the promise in the Bible that we have life to come, life forever, life with God. He talked about a lady he knew who lived in poverty, even though she had quite a nest egg in the bank, because she was paralyzed with fear about touching her money. She was sick and dying because of the fact that she didn't draw from what she had in her bank account.
Listening to it, I sat there thinking: that's me. For some reason I don't access the love that I know God has for me, and I don't live in hope. It's almost as if I'm afraid that I can't spend it. But now I feel like I'm waking up. Why let everything that God has given to me freely sit there becoming moldy? Why do I live unaware of the goodness he has for me, so often? I live like a worker bee, conscientiously doing all the tasks that are in front of me, without drawing from the love that will sustain me. As though life is about work. As though Christianity is about work. And I burn out. I lash out. I die slowly.
Dr. Keller described this as a widespread condition. Have we let ourselves forget what we have? What we are headed towards? It's amazing, really, that we can be so dull, while we are being given so much.
October 13, 2005
Yesterday I was in the hospital, and today I was at the doctor's office. I feel worn out. Of all the things that motherhood encompasses, it's the appointments that really get me down.
Yesterday they did a biopsy of the lump that is perched on my thyroid at the base of my long neck. Or, as Chinua so aptly put it, yesterday I was stabbed in the throat several times. I did pretty well, I'd say, considering that when I was a kid I was famous for screaming down the nurses when they tried to draw blood. I'm a little needle-phobic. So I took precautions as I went in, bringing Chinua with me for moral support. We dropped the kids off at a friend's house, where they were absorbed into the surroundings and pretty much didn't notice when we left. The family that we left them with has a whopping ten children, and the wonderful thing about this is that another two don't really make much of a dent.
I was nervous. I probably would have been more nervous if they had bothered to tell me that they actually needed to take about six samples. (The nurses I had talked to on the phone had vaguely described "a sample.") This meant that, including the two shots of novocaine, I was stuck in the neck eight times. And, I understated it when I said I'm a little needle-phobic. I'm actually a big huge Needle Phobe. I lay there peacefully breathing until they gave me the first shot. That's when the panic set in. That's when I started to faint, to feel lightheaded and nauseous and cold and then hot. That's when I remembered. I can't do this. I hate needles.
It took everything in me not to panic. To lie there quietly while the nurse (who looked exactly like Jennifer Aniston) put cold towels on my forehead, and the doctor (who looked exactly like Steve Martin) became very informative about exactly how much I was bleeding and the methods he was using to extract the tissues. He used words like "sawing" while he was jiggling the needle back and forth energetically. Pretty much every time they put the needle in, they had to talk me out of fainting. And as I was exerting all my will into not panicking, the pathologist, who was there to ensure that they had the proper amount of samples, said cheerfully when we thought we were done, "Since she's so nice and relaxed there, why don't we get another three samples or so?" They only took one, but it unfortunately turned out to be a doozie. I'm surprised I'm not paralyzed.
Not a pleasant experience.
I used to think, when I was younger and would faint when my blood was drawn, that I was just a big wimp. Now I know better. I've been through two long childbirths with no pain relievers, and I look back at those experiences with awe and nostalgia. My problem is as simple as the fact that I actually just hate needles.
And I think I've learned to internalize a lot of things, like the way I hid my panic on that table and the pathologist took it as peace. A good friend of mine told me the other day that I've somehow made what I do (she was talking about being the mother of young children and doing the part time work that I do, which somehow seems to take up all my time) seem easy. That it seems effortless. Graceful. How can this be? I guess the turmoil and the craziness are inward. I hide the fact that I've been a mom now for three years and I feel like I've just started to figure out what I'm doing, the fact that I usually don't catch my breath until the kids are in bed at night.
Well, I'm glad that it seems easy, because it really is a lot better than they tell you. They tell you that motherhood will take over until there's nothing left of you, but they don't tell you that what comes out when that happens will be a real person. Truly nice, instead of nice only when not messed with.
Like today, when I took the kids into the doctor for their check-up. The nurse told me to get the kids undressed for their physical and I was left in the exam room for half an hour with a naked three year old and a naked eighteen month old running around screaming and pulling open drawers that contained hazardous material. The only appointment they were able to give me was smack dab in the middle of Kenya's usual nap time, and I'm telling you, she gets a little wild. Especially in a room full of sharp instruments and nothing to play with. And for some reason, Kai, her older brother, follows her example, rather than the other way around. It felt a little like I was being punished in a very creative way. "Here, sit in the little room with your wild naked children and try to make them behave."
I guess I had it coming. They were so good, yesterday, after the biopsy when we were doing our "come out of the woods and shop, blinking, in the bright lights" errands. And they are perfectly healthy, not anemic, tall for their ages, and bright as sunbeams. Just don't put them into a doctor's exam room for long periods of time. And don't ask me to fill out stacks of paperwork, so that I can only half watch them.
And here I am, now, feeling a lot better after having written this, emotionally exhausted from continually pushing the worst-case-scenarios out of my head. It's not the most reassuring kind of exam, you know. A biopsy. But I'm in God's hands, whic
h is the only place I've ever been, the only place to be.
October 16, 2005
Why, exactly, is it so hard to pack for a trip when you have kids? It's like trying to put the carrot back together after you've juiced it. I remember, after I had Kai, thinking that birth had done something to my brain. I couldn't collect my thoughts, couldn't figure out how to get out the door without melting down. Now, three years later, I am mostly better, but let me know that we're leaving for a week and pandemonium sets in. I can leave for the day easy-peasy, (although every so often I get really confident and leave something behind that's as important as, say, diapers) but the longer trips have me stumped.
Chinua and I left for San Francisco earlier today. Yay! We're on a kind of journey. We have work to do in the city, people to meet with, and a wedding to attend and photograph next weekend. Once we were on the road it was great. The kids were angels in the car, with barely any crying, barely any protests like, "Mom, I don't want this piece of the seat to touch meeee..." We set our faces like flint, with the In 'N' Out Burger as our destination. Now that we live at the Land, In 'N' Out burgers are rare treats, with their rarity making them all the more precious.
But, this morning, while I was packing in the rain, I nearly had a panic attack. Chinua had to stand in front of me with his hands on my shoulders, instructing me to breathe. It's a problem I've had for a long time, but over the last few months it's been better. It's the feeling that when I am doing something, I really should be doing something else. Torturing myself this way for hours, I used to wander around the flat in San Francisco flitting from office work to kitchen dishes to laundry in my room. I never felt okay doing anything. It was a terrible kind of guilt. Something else is more important than what I am doing right now, and I should be doing that. It is only recently that I have realized that this not a healthy or normal way to live, and lately things have been better. I try to finish things I start, try to be peaceful making breakfast when it's time to make breakfast, paying bills when it's time to pay bills. I try to keep my time with the kids and time in the office separated, so that I'm not doing too many things at once.
Today, though, I would put a piece of kid's clothing into a backpack and then jump up to wash a dish and then brush one tooth, before I realized that the kids were not even dressed yet. And all the while, the mantra going on in my head... WE NEED TO LEAVE WE NEED TO LEAVE. It's enough to make anyone insane.
I really admire the people in my life who have good focus. They seem to get more done than anyone else, rather than less. Like my husband, for example, who is a kind of guitar virtuoso. I wasn't around when he was getting where he was with it, but I know that it came out of obsessive hours and hours of practice. I know this because it's the same way he learned how to juggle. I would wake up at 4:00 AM, alone in our bed, and wander out to the living room to find him. Sure enough, there he was, juggling, wild eyed and exhausted. He gets stuck. It's the reason he plays guitar like a master and juggles fire like a pro.
It's probably good that between the two of us, there's a happy medium. But, after today, I realize that I want a return to the peaceful focus that God has begun to cultivate in me.
October 29, 2005
The last week and a half has been one of the busiest and most difficult times of my life. I have slept in maybe twelve different places. I've driven a total of 62 hours. I've had two crackaccinos (you know, the little cappuccino drinks that come out of the machines in gas stations) even though I'm pregnant and I don't drink coffee, just to stay awake. I've had sixteen meetings, slept in a bedroom with four children and five adults, photographed a wedding and attended a funeral. Chinua and I have both cried, in the last week. This is not so remarkable for me, more so for him. I've eaten at In 'N' Out Burger four times, not entirely by choice. I sat with my family in our broken down vehicle on the side of the highway in the middle of the night for four hours.
And tomorrow morning, Chinua and the kids and I are beginning our drive to Canada for a visit. My home and native land. Now I'm heading to bed, since we're pretty much packed up. Did I mention that all our washers and dryers here at the Land are broken? As a result, I haven't done laundry in a couple of weeks and all our clothes are dirty. So, packing was rummaging through the hamper for the dirty clothes I want to bring so that I can stuff them all, stinking, in the backpack to take to my parents' house, where the first thing I will say to them as we fall through the door blissful and exhausted is: "Do you mind if I do some laundry?"
November
November 21, 2005
We're back from beautiful, leaf strewn Canada, where we raked leaves into large piles and jumped in them, where we soaked in the presence of my parents and sister and brother.
I love living in the trees. I'm afraid that I love it too much. I've been worried that I'm growing a bit agoraphobic, lately, which I think means that I'm scared of going out. Or maybe it means I'm afraid of open spaces, which I'm not. All I know is that the other day I was almost in a panic because I was doing errands and there were too many things, too many people, people looking at me, people everywhere. People looking at me with their beady eyes, buying buying BUYING.
I realize I may not be entirely well.
Walking into Bed Bath and Beyond almost did me in. I needed to buy a special pillow for my gimped neck. I fractured a vertebrae in my neck when Kai was an infant, and ever since, I have to be careful of what I allow my tender neck to rest upon. Unfortunately, the only place that carries the one I need is the psycho household store. Have you ever been in that store? Talk about insanity. They've taken vertical storage to a whole new limit. There are fifty million types of garlic presses, stacked to the ceiling. I almost started crying.
I'm laughing about this now, but it was really so bad at the time that I had to do deep breathing and positive self talk just to keep from scratching at my face while shopping. I also felt this intense sleepiness, which a couple of times almost had me laid out on the floor. I didn't lie on the floor. I realized that people would find this strange. I came home to the Land without buying half the things I needed. Sometimes it seems like there is too much stuff in the world and buying stuff hurts and brings me to tears. Maybe I had a touch of the flu.
I feel like hiding in the trees sometimes. And so I love living at the Land, where everything is getting greener with moss by the day, even though the leaves may smother us as they fall. And a few days ago when we were driving through the back roads of Oregon on our way home from Canada, I had the curious sensation of coming home. It was as though I saw all the variety shops and junk sellers and burl wood carvers and felt a kinship. I mean, if you're going to sell clutter, you might as well make it eccentric, eh?
November 23, 2005
I don't know the basic essentials of sleeping anymore. It's 2:00 AM, my eyes are closed, I'm breathing slowly, I'm trying to let my mind drift away... I'M NOT SLEEPING. Kai is sniffing, he's coughing, he's scratching at the eczema behind his knees, now he's turning back and forth, NOW he needs to get up to pee... I'M STILL NOT SLEEPING. You know, I had a very strange experience the other night, when I was staying in the City with friends, without my family. I went to sleep, closed my eyes, and when I woke up... the sun was up. I almost couldn't understand what was happening. You mean-- I slept all the way through the night? On the same side of my body? Right now, with a mattress as thick as a piece of rice paper on a bunk bed which causes my husband to have to crawl over my lightly sleeping body to get to his side of the bed, and little elves who snore in their beds which are five feet away from our bed, well. I wake up about thirty-eight times a night. This is true.
Maybe not sleeping is the reason that I felt like my brain was decomposing all day. Maybe it was the fact that my husband has been sick in bed for three days, and I alternately feel terrible for him and envy him with a ferocity that is ferret-like in nature. Maybe I'm really tired and that's why I said the "D" word when Kai peed in his jammies right after I put him in them. He has this terrible habit of holdi
ng his pee until he needs to relieve himself so desperately that he is jogging in place while trying to unzip his pajamas. It doesn't work very well. But is that terrible habit more terrible that saying the "D" word over some wet undies? Probably not. I apologized to Kai, and he asked sweetly, "Are you saying sorry because you said Dammit?" "Yes," I said. "Because that's not a good word?" he asked. "That's right," I said. "Because you shouldn't say it?" he asked. And ON AND ON until I almost said it again.
December
December 8, 2005
The other day a girl gave me a handful of drugs. She's been living here at the Land, and had confessed to me that she had drugs stashed in her cabin. We walked down together to retrieve a baggie full of weed and ecstasy. I was struck by the thought that what I held in my hand equaled time in jail. I could almost see a thick chain attached to it, this tiny bag of trouble. What a terrible thing it would be, especially now that I have children. It was a huge relief to walk to the toilet and flush it all down.
It's so freeing to have nothing to hide. There is nothing that makes me anxious when I pass a cop on the road (I may glance at my speedometer briefly, though) and no shudder in my bones when I walk through one of those thief detectors at the store. I spent years as a young teenager addicted to stealing, and as a result walking around like a large intense spider, never able to relax. God mercifully stepped in and I was arrested. In the years since, I have nothing to be afraid of. The law can't touch me because all of me is visible-- there is nothing hidden.
It's so hard to remember, though, in my own mental illness, in my willingness to accept the guilt that descends on me daily, that really the law can't touch me. One day we will be perfect, but until then, it is enough to live in the Light and be honest about how wretched and small we are. It is enough to watch God. To see the way he does things and to be so happy about how good he is, because he promised that this is the way we will become pure.
Trees Tall as Mountains (The Journey Mama Writings: Book 1) Page 4